The Smoke Is Still Clearing
by WhiteMoon56
Summary: "I have never been without instructions... I don't know what I'm supposed to do now." Connor has become Deviant, but emotions are complicated things. In the aftermath, he still has much to learn.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Leave it to this game to get me writing again. Enjoy!

* * *

Connor's never been hugged before.

Hank's palm is solid at the back of his neck, dragging him forward without warning. He's not expecting it; Hank has never been the type to touch him or display any form of common human contact. Connor blinks a few times, face pressed into Hank's shoulder, able to distinguish the variation in his jacket where the stitching is starting to fray.

He lets his eyes close, waiting for Hank to say something, ask something, anything, but the only thing he notices is the rate of Hank's heart, elevated and thrumming just beneath his chin. _He lied,_ Connor thinks, slowly. _He didn't want to die._

This percolates while he considers the events of the past twelve hours, the way the very world seems to have tilted beneath him. He wonders if it would be legal to stand here for the rest of the day and use the time to process. He might need it.

Connor rolls the word _deviant_ around in his head, next to the words _free_ and _equal._ They don't seem to quite fit together the way he'd like them to. He doesn't know how Markus did it, leading a protest and a _people_ while juggling the alterations to the very way he operates. The idea of it makes Connor feel very, very sluggish. The edges of his shattered mind palace seem to scrape and pull. He tilts his head a little, still resting on Hank's shoulder, hoping something rights itself, somewhere up there.

"Fuck, kid," Hank says, moving back, hands shifting to his shoulders. "Wasn't sure I'd ever be seeing you again. Y'okay?"

 _Processing…_

 _Biocomponents : OK_

 _Biosensors: OK_

 _Thirium Level: 91%_

 _Minor damage to RS#4572. Repair._

 _S9of1tw7ar6e In4s3abi8li5ty: C7om2p8ro3m65is4ed_

Connor keeps his eyes on the ground, forming his hands in and out of fists. "I'm fine."

Hank's hands retreat. "Ah." He snorts, scuffling one of his feet through a snowdrift. "Right. Okay, lemme try this again." Connor feels him shuffle a little closer; notices him lift his head to stare at the skyline, where Connor knows there's still a plume of smoke rising from the Jericho explosion. Hank sighs, clicking his tongue against his teeth, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. "How d'you _feel,_ Connor?"

 _Processing…_

 _Results Inconclusive_

 _S9of1tw7ar6e In4s3abi8li5ty_

Connor lifts his gaze to meet Hank's. One eyebrow is raised, the edge of a grin beginning to form. Connor presses his lips into a hard line and tries to sort out the broken pieces of what he used to understand, but he'd torn down that wall three hours ago, facing Markus and making a choice. He fiddles with the sleeves of his jacket and straightens, rolling his shoulders. "I"—and his voice comes out small—"don't believe I know." It's a new concept, this mess his processor has become, and he's not entirely sure he likes it. He's heard humans describe hope and happiness and confusion before, but he is— _he was_ —a machine. He'd embraced it. He had never needed to sort out the difference between any emotions, with the exception of understanding their influences on the path to a crime.

He doesn't know what any of them are supposed to _feel_ like.

Connor settles his hands on his hips, suddenly needing to do something with them. Hank's grin has expanded to a full smirk, and he shakes his head. Connor stares at him. "You are enjoying my uncertainty, Lieutenant."

Two hands come free of his pockets in surrender. "Hey, whoa. I'll admit it's weird seeing you without all the answers, but I'm not _enjoying_ it. Why would I be enjoying it?"

Connor raises an eyebrow and says nothing. One thing he does know is sincerity, and this is not that. But it's also… not quite a lie. Hank chokes out a laugh.

"Shit. That expression'll kill me." He folds his arms across his chest, shifting the sleeves of his jacket so they bunch oddly around his elbows. Connor blinks and starts to ask, but Hank shakes his head. "Eh, listen. That's normal. Humans spend more than half our fucking lives confused. It comes with the territory." Hank walks closer to him, clapping his shoulder, and blinks at the connecting ring of his hand on metal bone. But he presses on. "Hell, I've only felt certain about two things in my life, and I've got years on you. Time's all y'need, and even then it might not help." He shrugs, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "Life's a shitshow."

 _Surprisingly insightful, for Hank,_ Connor thinks, and nods, letting his hands slip to his sides. "Time," he says, and he feels like he's really saying the word for the first time. "Time I appear to have plenty of."

"This is the end of a damn war," Hank mutters, staring back at the city in the aftermath. "Got nothing _but_ time, now that you won."

Connor's not so sure. Yes, the army had backed off, and yes, they were no longer actively pursuing deviants and hunting androids like animals, but had they won? He thinks, in the long run, probably not. This hadn't been war, not really. It had been small and personal, and historically nothing small and personal lasts for very long.

He shifts on his feet, glancing at Hank and wondering if CyberLife had expected any of this. He has records of Kamski stowed somewhere in his processor refuting claims of potential deviancy and assuaging fears, ever the soothing and calm leader of some new great progress. And yet he hadn't shown even a second to the battle over the very thing he'd claimed would never come to pass.

 _Amanda, too,_ Connor thinks, remembering snow and a deep-set chill so cold it had evoked pain unlike anything he'd felt before, or imagined he would ever feel again. He shakes his head. _Neither of them are innocent in this._

Hank nudges him, and he blinks, realizing he'd closed his eyes. "Lost you there for a minute. What now?"

"I was… just thinking," he says, and collects those thoughts for later, pushing them back into corners and readjusting his focus. "It's nothing."

Hank doesn't look quite convinced, but Connor doesn't feel like sharing. _That's part of being human too,_ he thinks, with a little smile. _I'm allowed to keep things to myself._ No one needs to know about his struggle with Amanda, and the conflict is too fresh to start raising new suspicions. Detroit needs time to adjust and rebuild before it goes chasing larger battles.

"Sure," Hank says, gruff, and Connor watches his eyes run over his face. "…Y'know you can talk to me, right son?"

 _Son_ is new. _Kid_ he's heard, along with a host of other names, not all of them so uncertain. He tests _son_ in his head and decides it suits him, even as something new adds itself to the mess. "Yes Hank," he says. "I know."

"…Good." Hank's gaze moves from Connor back to Detroit, and exactly 27 seconds pass before he speaks again. "What's your plan now?"

 _An excellent question._ Connor fidgets with his hands again; he's never realized how much of a problem standing still is until just now. _Where's my… right._ He tips his head at Hank, grinning. "Well, I'd like to start with you returning what you took from me."

Hank arches an eyebrow, turning around. "What I… what did I take from you?"

Connor makes a motion with his right hand like he's flipping a coin, and raises both of his eyebrows in turn. Hank mutters a "shit" under his breath and starts patting his pockets. Six seconds later he produces a quarter from his back pocket and holds it out, balanced between his thumb and his finger. "This damn thing."

 _Sync in Progress…_

 _Collecting Data…_

 _Analyzing Data…_

 _Sync Complete_

 _United States of America Silver Quarter_

 _Minted: August, 1964_

 _90% Silver, 10% Copper_

"Yes," Connor says, extending his hand. "That damn thing."

Hank chuckles, curling his fingers and flipping the coin to Connor with a soft _ping._ Connor catches it easily, feeling oddly calmer now that he's holding it again. He stares at Hank as he flips it three more times in slow, fluid movements, before tucking it away and nodding. Hank rolls his eyes.

"Ya got me," he says, but doesn't look even the slightest bit regretful. "Anything else?"

 _It's not honest contempt, either,_ Connor thinks, barely suppressing the urge to squint at him. … _It's a good thing I have time._

"I have never been without instructions," Connor says, pausing when Hank's expression crumples just a little. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"There's nothing you _are_ supposed to fucking do, son." Hank brings a hand up to his forehead and rubs his temple. "Do whatever you want."

 _That doesn't help me._ Connor crosses his arms. "I… don't know what I want."

Hank smiles, but it's a small, bitter thing. "Heh, join the club. Our numbers grow every day."

Connor opens his mouth to ask about this club when Hank's phone rings, the guitar riffs of something Connor doesn't have enough time to analyze before it's answered.

"Anderson." A long pause. Connor watches Hank's face, but it doesn't shift from neutral. He almost anticipates disaster, or rebuttal. _Something is wrong, as something so often is._

"…Yeah, I can see, I guess. I don't control him." Another pause. Hank scratches his chin. "Don't get smug with me, Bill." A shift. A nod. "Alright. I can, uh, yep. Wait there, we'll come to you. Yeah." Hank closes his phone with a sharp snap. Connor finds himself almost leaning forward, waiting. A goal.

 _I just need a goal._

"Station," Hank says, watching Connor with a passive expression. "They wanna know if you're willing to come help, uh, _regulate_ androids to safe spaces for the next few days. They can't stay in the streets." Hank shifts, pocketing his phone. "And they trust you."

" _If you're willing"_ is still odd to Connor's ears. He can refuse, if he wants. Hank is giving him the option to do what he wants. He feels another something add to the mess, and is nodding before he fully realizes it. _They trust me._ He'd saved them, all 3,500 of them, so he supposes he understands. He'd never needed to trust anyone before Hank, before they'd needed each other. That's new, too, but… he understands.

"I want to help," he says, and Hank nods.

"Great, then. I've got my car." Hank motions with a hand and points a little up the deserted street, where the outline of his car is visible. He begins walking, and Connor follows. After a moment of silence Hank gestures to him, turning his head. "C'mon. Walk with me."

Connor lengthens his stride to catch up, and walks side-by-side with Hank. It's… good. It makes him feel like more. He slides into the passenger seat with the ease of practice, Hank beating him to the closing of his own door by the space of a breath. Knights of the Black Death bursts from the speakers. The engine turns over. Connor smiles.

 _Sync in Progress…_

 _Collecting Data…_

 _Analyzing Data…_

 _Sync Interrupted_

Hank's fingers are on the volume, plunging it to zero. "Nah, don't analyze. That's your analyze face. Just… listen."

Connor nods, slowly, blinking away the data rising in front of his eyes. He closes them. It fades. Hank pulls from the curb; Connor hears the volume dial click as it turns, bringing back the guitar.

He listens.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for the support the first chapter received! Enjoy!

* * *

Downtown is in a state of calm when Hank pulls the car into Hart Plaza, but just barely. The billboard that once washed the street blue with advertisements for CyberLife now flashes a dark, repeating crimson, detailing the President's decree of a citywide evacuation. Connor opens the door and steps out, blinking in the gentle snowfall. He lets his gaze sweep the plaza.

 _Analyzing…_

 _3,728 androids_

 _12 humans_

 _Temperature: 29 degrees_

Hank's staring at him over the hood of the car, shoulders bunched around his ears, jaw just slightly slack. Connor adjusts the sleeves of his jacket and tips his head. "Hank?"

But Hank's gaze isn't actually fixed on _him._ He follows the Lieutenant's eyes over his shoulder to the thousands of androids milling around Hart Plaza, accompanied by the dull buzz of conversation and the shouting of a few police officers. It doesn't astound him, but then again, he can count them. It's not a daunting number.

"3,728," he says, turning back to face Hank and doing a swift calculation. "3,500 were in the basement of CyberLife. 228 survived the Jericho explosion, including Markus." He pauses, as Hank's stare shifts to meet his and he blinks a few times. "If that puts things into perspective." He begins to move away from the car. _I should find Markus. He might want assistance._

 _Sending…_

 _I'm here. Do you need me?_

 _Reply: I might. Let's talk._

"Jesus," Hank says, moving to follow. "I'd've called in all the backup I had, too. Crowd this big, there're never enough eyes."

Connor shakes his head. "Normally, yes. But we're… very well connected."

Hank snorts. "Ah, yeah, right. Your little… glowy things. They talk to each other?" He reaches a finger to point at Connor's temple, where the circle of his LED pulses.

"It's not them, exactly," Connor says, reaching the edge of the crowd and beginning to weave through the throng. "It's a component installed into the language and communication wires of our processor. It enables speech across distances through a chip 3.1 millimeters wide." He holds up two of his fingers, almost pressed together.

Hank chuckles, soon matching his stride. "All I know is you just lit up yellow. And you only do that when something's whirring up there." He brushes snowflakes from Connor's shoulder, swiftly, once. Connor blinks.

 _He noticed? That's… interesting._

"You're yellow again, son."

Connor jerks his attention from the inside of his head back to the present, and takes a long, unnecessary breath. _I'll worry about it later._

Hank smirks, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Y'know where we're going?"

"…Yes." Connor pulls a little ahead and begins to walk with more purpose, gently guiding androids out of his way. Hank is a little louder about it.

"Yeah, s'cuse me, yep, right, move, thanks, 'preciate it. Great."

Connor eventually feels Hank's presence at his shoulder again, just a little behind. "Shit," he mutters, rolling his shoulders. "Crowds. Ever mentioned I fucking hate crowds?"

"No," Connor says, eyeing Hank's tense posture. "But now you have."

 _Sending…_

 _Clear a path._

Androids begin to move out of their way without being asked, giving the two of them at least a foot of space. Sometimes more. Hank's shoulders slowly lower to loose, and he stares at Connor from the corner of his eye. "Wonders of technology."

 _And he's smiling._ Connor nods, feeling a smile of his own pull at his lips, as something sparks in his processor. It smooths the mess a little, like he's accomplished something, like everything will be just fine. It doesn't last, but he holds on to the notion that it existed.

"…Thanks," Hank mutters, turning his head away and staring out at the thousand faces. Connor's processor stutters this time, and he pauses for a moment before recovering.

"Of course."

He's never been thanked before.

It evokes something else, something different, and he falls silent while he walks, letting Hank lead. _I don't understand. It's so… fleeting. There isn't_ time _to understand._ He finds himself rolling his quarter back and forth, heads to tails back to heads. It gives him something to focus on. He arrives at Hank's side with it still balanced on one of his knuckles.

"Jeffrey," Hank says, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing the Captain with a look Connor hasn't seen before. "What the fuck is going on?"

Captain Fowler appears to be in some sort of discussion with Markus, who stands directly to Fowler's left, hands clasped behind his back. Markus' eyes flick to Connor when he appears, and then to Hank, but he says nothing. Connor flips his quarter to his other hand and waits.

"Hank, honestly, I could ask you the same thing. I needed all hands on deck; this evacuation is stretching us thin, what with people trying to leave amid a few thousand androids with nowhere to stay." Fowler's lips work into a frown. "Where were you?"

"Looking for him." Hank jerks his head at Connor, who nods. "Like you said, all hands on deck. He pretty much works for you now."

Connor blinks. His quarter stops. "I do?" _After everything I've done…_

"He does?" Fowler's voice joins his, lower, clipped. "I never agreed to this."

Hank's smile would almost be cruel, in the right light. "He's the best damn detective you're ever gonna get, Jeffrey. You gonna turn him down cause of who he is?"

Hank's itching for a fight, Connor can tell. It's been a while since they've disagreed on something. Fowler just looses a defeated sigh. "We're not discussing this now. Later. Much later. Now I need you to focus, and find a place for these androids that is _not on this street._ " He smacks the palms of his hands together for emphasis."They've been here too long and done enough already. They have to _move_ , and I'm fresh out of ideas that Markus will accept."

Connor puts his quarter away. Situation analysis, he can handle. There's always an answer.

"Right, whatcha got?" Hank rocks forward on the balls of his feet, eyebrows raising. The snow seems to fall a little harder. He's looking at Fowler, but it's Markus who speaks up.

"He suggested those able return to their former owner's homes." He seems to almost spit the sentence at Fowler's feet.

Fowler sighs, again. "I didn't think it was such a terrible idea. Evacuation's going on, no one will be home."

Markus shakes his head. "They won't want to return to a place they were enslaved." He presses a finger against his temple, in the place his LED used to be. "It's not… it doesn't work like that."

Connor looks at Markus, almost bent in on himself. He appears exhausted, for one who feels nothing of the sort. _Doing what he's done would tire anyone._

"There's the option of relocation, but…" Fowler pauses, as if he knows Markus will interrupt.

"We're not leaving the city. Not until I know it's really over," Markus says, without looking up.

Fowler, face passive, sweeps a hand in the leader's direction. "And there's nowhere big enough to house them all comfortably."

Hank turns, just slightly, one hand on his chin. "Bright ideas, Connor?"

Connor tips his head, counting, thinking. "One, yes."

 _Analyzing…_

 _Calculating route…_

 _Calculating space…_

 _1188 Farmer St._

 _One Campus Martius Garage_

 _0.4 miles away_

 _Sending…_

3,727 yellow LEDs blink back at him. He turns to Hank. "There's a parking garage, less than a mile away. It won't be comfortable, but given the President's decree it should be empty, and out of the snow." He lets his gaze slide to Markus, who's staring at him in turn. "We don't have very many options right now."

Hank smirks, and looks at Fowler. The Captain rolls his eyes. "You know what? Sounds good. As long as you move, I'm not opposed."

3,500 agreements filter through Connor's head in a crescendo of voices, some soft, some louder, until they seem to echo. It fills him with something; something, again, that is too brief to name.

The survivors of Jericho wait on Markus, heads turned to their leader still standing, eyes now closed. Eventually, he holds up a hand, and meets Fowler's stare with a dulled intensity. "We won't be bothered."

It's not a request. Fowler locks his jaw and nods, slowly, once. "I'll do my best."

Some of the tension holding Markus together seems to fade. Connor watches him, wondering what he's thinking. How he does it. How he's still standing, after everything. _But there'll be time for that later._ He has a long list of things for later.

Now, Hank's hands are on his shoulders, giving him a shove. "Good job, son. Now the real work starts." Hank waves a hand at the androids behind them. "How many police officers does it take to move 4,000 androids?" He barks out a single laugh.

"Three thousand, seven hund—"

"Okay, I know. I was rounding up." Hank pats him on the shoulder, still smirking. "Just walk. They're clearly waiting on ya."

 _They're waiting on me._ He seems to have become the appointed leader of this group of androids, and he turns to face them. Leading, for once, instead of following. Something else flickers in a corner of his mind, brief and bright and powerful. He turns to Markus, who nods. It's stiff, but he nods.

Hank glances at the steadily assembling group of androids and shakes his head. "Nah, they don't want me. This is all you." He smiles, briefly. "Just a couple city blocks. Yeah. Nothing to lose our shit over." He returns to Fowler's side, and Connor loses sight of him as he's given a new place to stand.

Connor straightens, setting his jaw, and faces the walk ahead. Markus is a quiet presence and he gives no orders.

 _This is all you._

"It's not far," Connor begins, turning down the sidewalk, Markus on his left. Cars embroiled in evacuation skirt the road directly to his right. Honking fills the air as they begin to walk.

 _0:34:53 to arrival_

The police accompanying Fowler fan out around the procession. It's slow going.

 _0:21:19 to arrival_

Car windows are rolled down. Some wave. Some curse.

 _0:15:41 to arrival_

Heads to tails and back to heads. Liberty. 1964.

 _0:13:58 to arrival_

Markus plucks the quarter from his fingers. He pockets it.

 _0:06:04 to arrival_

The traffic has started to thin out closer to the center of the city. Quiet hangs.

 _0:01:26 to arrival_

When he turns the corner, he sees yellow blinking behind him. _At least they're talking._

 _0:00:32 to arrival_

The first gunshot splits the silence.

 _-:-:- to arrival_

The screaming starts.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks for all the comments and support, I hoard them like gold! Enjoy!

* * *

Markus's hand closes around Connor's arm and all but drags him to the ground, colliding with the pavement in a speed that rocks him. "Stay down," he hisses, even as something turns and clenches somewhere behind Connor's regulator.

 _Bang._

More screams. He can hear the distinct sound of Fowler's voice raised over the din, repeating Markus's words. _Get down. Stay down._

There's movement. Footsteps pound past his head. He sees 56 androids reach the parking garage, which is indeed empty. More follow.

 _Bang. Bang._

He's not facing the chaos; the shots are coming from behind him, and the lack of knowledge twists. Humans are sticking their heads out their windows, gawking. A few hide behind steering wheels.

 _Bang._

 _Don't shout for Hank,_ Connor thinks, instead turning his gaze to the detail of the sidewalk and tightening his limbs. _That will make him a target. Don't move. Stay down._ But everything in him is strained, pressed and pulled tight, tense. _Where is Hank? Is he alive? Was he shot?_ He can feel his regulator thrumming in his stomach. The speed is new.

Markus's fingers are a constant presence on his arm, holding him back. Waiting. Useless. He… he _hates it._

 _Bang._

Yet more screams. Scuffling. Shouts. Connor looks at Markus, pressed low, eyes staring straight ahead. He hasn't flinched. He hasn't so much as blinked. Connor frowns. _He's used to this._ He turns his head back to the street, where the humans are still picking their way through traffic to asylum. _No one should be used to witnessing their people die._

 _Bang. Bang._

Connor thinks about the lives he'd saved, and spared, by making a choice. He thinks about the distinct gratitude in the Chloe's eyes. He thinks about the little smiles the Tracis threw him before they disappeared. He closes his eyes. Markus's hand shifts from his arm to his shoulder. "Connor, don't—"

But he's already moving, using his weight to spring up and spin around. And it is chaos. Only about half of the androids obeyed commands to get down and stay down. The others that are attempting to flee are running in whichever direction doesn't lead them into traffic, pushing past him away from the gunfire. He pushes forward, toward it. _I can help._

 _Bang._

Thirium bursts from an android to his left in a cobalt arc, a perfect shot straight through the back, into the regulator. Connor doesn't think about it. He can't afford to. There's thirium on his torso and his leg, but he _can't think about it._

Markus's voice rises behind him, snapping him away from the android's empty, sparking stomach. His face is passive, his eyes blank. "Go, then. I'll help them."

Connor feels almost as if he needs to say something, facing Markus amidst another of his choices. But he doesn't have the words. Markus crouches down, closing the android's eyes. "They listen to me," he says, soft, almost inaudible over the screaming, the pushing, the footsteps. "If you're going, _go."_

 _Bang._

The shot skitters into the crowd, parting fleeing bodies. Connor flinches on reflex, processor humming, but unable to see where in the masses the bullet found a mark. Markus doesn't move save his eyes, flicking between the faces of fleeing androids. Eventually his mismatched stare meets Connor's.

 _Received: Find the shooter. Stop them._

Clear objectives. Brief. Connor gives Markus a slow nod and goes.

 _Bang._

The sound is closer. Louder. Two more fall, to his right. Precise. Clean. The same spot each time. Their eyes meet his from the pavement, vacant and unseeing. Two LEDs blink red before fading entirely.

 _Only the ones that flee are being shot._ Connor steps past a few androids curled in on themselves on the ground, shaking. They appear unharmed. He presses on, still wound tight, regulator still pulsing erratically. He doesn't feel grounded; he doesn't feel calm.

 _Bang. Bang._

He doesn't see these targets. He wonders briefly where the police are, and remembers Hank's earlier words. Seems, this time, he was right.

 _Bang._

He hears the sound of tearing fabric. Shredding plastic. Something sharp and cold lances down his system.

 _WARNING_

 _Thirium Level: 74%...73%...72%_

He can feel the thirium on his shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin. He can feel chill air on the wires beneath the hole in his side. Connor scans the area directly in front of him and finds an AP700, with a very calm Captain Fowler on his knees, hands behind his head. Androids jostle the group as they flee. The AP700 weighs the pistol and watches them go, stare flicking between Connor and the Captain. He's one from the basement of CyberLife, pale white uniform still perfectly clean. He presses the barrel of the gun against the back of Fowler's head and sighs. "Hello, Connor."

 _Fowler…_ Connor lets his eyes pan around. Four more police officers stand to either side of the android, pistols raised, including Hank. Seven are missing. Connor ignores the desperate, wild-eyed look Hank throws his way, and clings to the sudden calm that seems to arrive at the sight of him. _He's alive. He's fine._

Connor lets the world fall away, and focuses on the threat at hand.

"This didn't have to happen," the AP700 says, voice even and measured. He pokes the back of Fowler's head with the gun. The Captain doesn't even flinch.

 _Sync in Progress…_

 _Gathering Data…_

 _Analyzing Data…_

 _Fowler, Jeffrey_

 _Minor cut, right eyebrow_

 _Minimal blood loss_

 _Analyzing Data…_

 _Glock 22_

 _Standard DPD pistol_

 _Fingerprints: Fowler, Jeffrey_

 _One round remaining_

Connor blinks. He's listening. He can feel Hank's eyes on the side of his face. "It didn't?" he asks, clenching and releasing his fingers, focused on the android. "Why not?"

There's a small laugh that drifts out of the AP700. He tilts the Glock sideways, as though examining the body. "See, telling you wouldn't work. Like this doesn't work." He waves the gun side-to-side. "I don't really want him." He nudges Fowler with the toe of his shoe, and the Captain still doesn't move.

 _He knows what he's doing,_ Connor thinks. He relaxes his fingers. "No?" The speed of his regulator increases at the AP700's slow, easy smile. "Then what do you want?"

The Glock shifts, like a blink of light, and the barrel is leveled at him, instead. Something clenches in his stomach. The AP700 moves, and so does Fowler, leaping to his feet and finding safety at the edge of the circle. Connor sets his jaw. He thinks he hears Hank mutter his name. The AP700 chuckles.

"Too many questions." He looks at Connor now, at last, and something isn't… right. It takes Connor a moment, a moment in which the barrel gets much closer to his forehead.

 _His LED. It's…_

The circle at the android's temple spins a pale, washed silver, with lingering hints of blue.

 _Analyzing…_

 _Biocomponent #9301_

 _Active_

 _Risk of Self-Destruct: Results Inconclusive_

Connor stays still. _Interesting. And very, very dangerous._ His fingers twitch. The AP700 takes another step closer. Connor feels his processor spark. " _W̶͚͗͋̇h̴̙͓͐a̶̳̓̕t̴̻̏ ̴̫̖͕͑̉̉w̷̖̆̓͝î̸̭̫͊l̷͕̀͘l̶͔̍͋ ̸̪̙̕͝h̶͚̥̉͜͝͠ă̷̻̆̃͜p̸̰̹̂p̷̛̝͙̩e̵͉̫̒͛n̸̡̬̊ ̴͚͙̭͊͋͠ḭ̶́̑̕ḟ̶̠̺̲́ ̶̤̾͑̚I̸͇̓͒ ̴̧̈́̏p̸̛̝̾͘u̵̙͇̾̃͝l̵̡͓͈̄l̵͖̜̱̇̈̚ ̸̱̟͙̌̈́͒ţ̵̙̜̔͂ḩ̷͆̈͒i̷̛̟̦̊͐͜s̴͇̓ ̸̨̰̪́̔̚ẗ̸̪́̈̓ȑ̷͚̮͒̌i̴̙̬̾̏̓͜ḡ̷͈͚͌̾g̵̫͓̙̏̈́̈́e̶͖͓͆̓r̷̪̩͓̈́?̶̜̂"_

There's a pause. Connor feels like he can't breathe. Which is odd. Because he doesn't. He can feel Hank staring, tense, ready to move. _But there's nothing he can do._ He stares at the AP700. Something flickers in his eyes, noticing the officers and the traffic and the humans. The Glock's barrel is pressed against Connor's forehead.

"Alright, you're too fucking close now. Put the gun down." Hank's voice cuts through the silence. Connor feels something in his stomach drop _._ His hands tighten to fists.

 _No, Hank. Stop._

But Hank can't hear him. The AP700's head swivels, his eyes finding Hank's, something almost like exasperation worked between his eyebrows. "Lieutenant," he says, very slowly, "Did you just tell me what to do?"

"You'd better fucking believe I did," Hank says, and each syllable is sharp. Connor hasn't heard this tone before, catching when he speaks. "Put the gun _down._ " His eyes are narrowed, but bright, and Connor recognizes fear when he sees it.

The gun hasn't moved, and the barrel is cold on Connor's forehead. He presses his lips together and lets his attention return to the android. None of the other officers have moved, either. The clearing is still save fleeing androids, which the AP700 pays no mind. Hank's words percolate through the snow.

"You must know that you can't stop me," the AP700 says at last, shifting his grip on the gun, "even if you wanted to. I'm faster. So much faster." His head tips. "You wouldn't have time."

The truth of this seems to settle. Connor knows he's right. The humans are weaker, and slower. By the time Hank's finger had started to pull the trigger he would be dead. _Dead._ It's an odd word to consider. He moves just slightly, suddenly unable to remain still. The AP700's eyes return to his.

 _I… don't want to die._

Hank has remained quiet, expression crumpled, gun still trained. The silence lingers, and the AP700 stares at Connor, suddenly empty, voice flat. "This isn't right. Not anymore. It won't work anymore."

"Why are you doing this?" Connor at last finds his own voice, staring the AP700 down. "What are you afraid of?" _There must be a reason. An answer. Somewhere._ He sees Hank tense out of the corner of his eye, but to his surprise the AP700's grip on the gun almost relaxes.

"…Change," he says, soft, face still blank. "You should be afraid of change, too, Connor. It's never going to stop. None of this will ever be over." His LED blinks a dull, faded yellow. Once. Twice. The ghost of a smile curls the corner of his lip. "And there are no resurrections this time."

Before any of them can move, the AP700 presses the Glock into his own regulator and fires. The sound echoes in Connor's head, thirium spattering the front of his jacket. The smile sticks in place as the android falls and hits the pavement with a muted, final _thud._ His LED spins red, and then silver, and then fades.

The quiet that follows is unlike anything Connor has heard before. And then sound comes crashing back. Officers scatter, regrouping androids and offering minor reassurances. Fowler crouches on the ground next to the AP700 and retrieves his gun, checks the clip. Sighs. The group around Connor grows tighter, louder, murmurs rising over one another.

Hank darts to his side, mouth pinched, eyebrows pulled together. He holsters his pistol and hooks an arm around Connor's neck, dragging him into another hug. "You scared the shit out of me, son."

Connor lets the words hang. "…I have been in negotiations before." _Though this was nothing like those._ He relaxes a little in Hank's grip. _This time I was afraid._ Fear, he recognizes. Fear is familiar. Like staring down the barrel of Hank's gun. Like the threat on Hank's life in the CyberLife basement.

Connor blinks. Hank seems to tense, in turn, something like a nervous laugh slipping out. "Negotiation? No. No, that wasn't a negotiation. That was you, about to _die_." He releases him slowly, giving Connor a squeeze on the shoulder and looking him up and down, not letting him go. "This… shit. This isn't all you, is it?" He makes a general gesture to the thirium coating Connor's clothes.

"No…"

"Good." Hank sighs. "How are you?"

 _Processing…_

 _Damage to #7756_

 _Self-Repair Commencing…_

 _01% Completed_

Connor flexes the fingers of his right hand. "Still intact."

Hank's eyebrows rise, teeth pinching the inside of his cheek. Connor shifts his arms. "I'll be fine. It just takes time." _And thirium. But I'll worry about that later._

 _WARNING_

 _Thirium Level: 67%... 66%... 65%..._

His vision scrambles for a moment, and he loses the details of Hank's face to the stutter. When it returns, there's a sour twist to Hank's expression. "Connor… you're not fine."

 _Worse than I thought. Too precise._

"But I will be," Connor mutters, as Hank's grip on his shoulders becomes less concerned and more supportive, keeping him upright. "I have to—"

"Fuck no, you don't have to do anything, you're fucking _bleeding._ " Hank's words are sharp again, and so Connor goes quiet. "You've done enough. We'll sort this shitshow out later. They're not going anywhere."

 _WARNING_

 _Thirium Level: 62%... 61%..._

"Alright," Connor says, even knowing it is completely not alright. The AP700's words spin around his mess of a processor, adding questions he doesn't have the answers to. There are fourteen dead androids, and he doesn't know why. He blinks, trying to steady himself, but his eyesight crackles again, and the street seems to shift. "Fine."

"Yeah, son. Okay, you're gonna be okay. Let's go."

Hank sounds far away. Connor thinks he might hear Markus say something, but he misses it. There's more he wants to tell Hank about the Glock and his sudden leap to his defense, but the words are too complicated. There's not enough thirium transmitting to properly form them.

He stops trying. Hank says something soft, and loops Connor's arm around his shoulders.

"You're gonna be okay."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** This story's not dead! I'm so sorry to everyone waiting on this; don't ever be an adult, the responsibilities suck. I have no idea what kind of schedule this story has for the future, but I'm not going to give up on it. Thank you for your continued support and your comments-they mean the world to me.

* * *

 _Reinitializing…_

Connor feels his vision focus. He can move his fingers, his hands, his legs. His chest rises and falls, soothing but unnecessary.

 _Reinitialized_

 _Self-Repair Successful_

 _Thirium Level: 98%_

He can perfectly remember the gunshots, the screaming, the panic, squinting at the ceiling. He _doesn't_ remember arriving here, where it's warm, where he in turn sobered Hank not so many days ago. Connor stretches his fingers against the cushions beneath him and frowns.

 _What happened?_ He tries to remember. But there's only the AP700's empty stare, and the fear in every word leaving Hank's mouth, and the rapidly dropping number on his thirium count. His eyebrows wrinkle seemingly of his own accord. _When did I end up here? I can't stay; they need my help. They need answers._

He sits up. Sumo is curled up at the foot of the couch near his feet, a warm weight holding his legs to the cushions. The light of the TV casts blue-white shadows on his ears and his nose. _Oh._ Connor shifts his right foot; Sumo snorts in his sleep and buries his head further between his paws.

His shoes are gone. So is his jacket, and his tie. Connor lifts the blanket draped over him to peer at his side, where the bullet had found home. Clean. Healed. Like it had never been there at all. _It was much worse than I initially thought. I've… never been wrong before._ He lowers the blanket, suddenly needing to do something, looking again at Sumo and moving his left foot this time.

Nothing. The dog is too big; there's no immediately obvious way to move him without hurting him or waking him up. Neither of which, Connor finds, he really desires to do. It's an odd swell in his chest as he regards Sumo's peaceful, sleeping face. _Conflicting priorities._ He leans back against the cushions again, thinking.

 _"You should fear change too, Connor. None of this will ever be over."_

The AP700's words don't make sense. And yet he had been thinking nearly the same thing earlier in the day, that it was too convenient, too easy, too small and personal and far too quiet to really be over. The notion sends a shudder through his system, and he laces his fingers on his stomach, restless, pattering out meaningless sounds against the blanket.

Markus has his quarter. His hands are directionless without it.

Events cycle through his head, but there's no way to organize his thoughts. There are more questions than there are answers, and the longer he spends thinking the more questions he arrives at. He's never before faced a case with so few leads.

 _And sitting here answers nothing._ Even though his processor informs him it has been a mere 79 seconds since he woke up, he is already restless. He has to _do_ something _._ Inaction may permit whatever it was that happened to occur again. And that… that is one thing he cannot allow.

 _Priority Selected_

"Sumo," he whispers, moving his feet with purpose, testing. The dog rumbles something Connor feels through the contact to his chest, but doesn't move. He smiles at the lump of an animal and represses a sigh. _My feet cannot be that comfortable._

 _Preconstructing…_

 _Failure_

 _Failure_

 _Success_

 _Executing…_

Connor slowly slides his hands beneath Sumo's stomach, deliberately adjusting until he has most of the dog's weight. "Alright, Sumo," he mutters, and lifts, putting just enough strength into the motion to slip his feet free and lower him back to the cushion. Silence hangs. The muted TV reports a changing host of color Connor ignores. "Good boy."

He sets his feet on the floor, spine straight, hands folded. His eyes drift over the scattered chaos of Hank's house before landing on the coffee table in front of him, where four bags of thirium lay drained and crumpled in an indeterminate heap. Connor squints at them, tipping his head. _Where did this come from?_ He takes a long breath, feeling his regulator skip and stutter. _If this is all for me, I was going to shut down. I was going to… die._

Fear wells hot and sparking in his processor; his fingertips twist from where they're knotted in his lap. _Where's Hank?_ He swivels in his seat, eyes adjusting until he locates the slumped, sleeping form of Hank in the chair next to the couch, half-empty glass swinging from his hand. Next to the thirium pouches sits a tinted glass bottle, near-drained of liquid and warping the wall behind it to a dull brown.

Something relaxes within the thrum of his regulator. _Safe. Good._ He stares at the bottle instead.

 _Sync in Progress…_

 _Collecting Data…_

 _Analyzing Data…_

 _Sync Complete_

 _Black Lamb Whisky_

 _40% alcohol content_

 _22.86 mL remaining_

Connor frowns, sliding his gaze back to Hank. Sumo _whuffs_ in his sleep. _He drinks too much._ He swipes the bottle off the coffee table along with the thirium pouches and pads into the kitchen, impressed with the silence of his footsteps. He's only ever walked anywhere in his shoes. He tosses the thirium pouches into the trash and without hesitating pours the remaining alcohol into the sink. _Better._ He stands in the kitchen, flexes his fingers, thinking. The AP700's hollow eyes flicker in his memory reserves.

The house is quiet. He has no plan. The AP700 had talked of fear, and change, but that was nothing new. That hadn't driven others to gunfire and screams. They had barely been constituted as free for 48 hours, and Connor doesn't comprehend fear that deep-set, that innate. He leans against the counter and scrubs a hand over his face.

 _I'm missing something._

And that's new. There's nothing to analyze, no blood trail to follow, no littering path of clues. He witnessed the killing. He knows the murderer, counted the victims. It's the motive that's nonexistent, and that can't be retrieved.

But Connor has never let a trail go cold, and he's not about to start now. Hank is his case partner, but he'd witnessed the exact same event. He's not a new perspective. Connor purses his lips and closes his eyes.

… _Markus. Markus might know something. He might have seen something in the aftermath, whatever it was that I missed._

He makes a decision. Despite whatever trouble he'd unwittingly brought to Markus's people and everything he'd done.

 _Sending…_

 _Can we talk?_

Silence. Not even the whisper of a reply. It's like the connection to Markus he once knew was there has gone dead, a snipped string. The same brief pulse of fear bleeds across his processor, but there are a number of things that could've happened. He could've closed the channel, blocked him out, powered down. But if something _worse_ occurred in the time since the gunshot…

Connor registers light beyond his closed lids and blinks. Hank is standing hunched near the divide between the living room and the kitchen, one finger on the light switch, eyes bloodshot and mouth pinched in a sharp, sour line. Connor stares back, waiting, utterly still. He remembers.

"Jesus, Connor, you…" Hank begins, but the words trail to a halt. "Ah, _fuck."_ He swirls the remaining alcohol in his glass and sniffs, expression twisting, staring at Connor over the rim. "This stunt you keep pulling has gotta stop."

"Stunt?" Connor shifts where he stands, unsure of the meaning behind the request. Hank drains his glass and presses his shoulder into the wall, something old in his eyes.

"Almost dying on me." There's the barest edge of a slur to the words, and Hank raises three of his fingers toward Connor, shadow warped in the kitchen light. "This is the third fucking time in _one fucking_ _week_ , and I'm too old for it." The hand falls back to his side, and he crosses the room, eyes passing over the now-empty bottle of whisky before landing back on Connor. He sets his glass on the table with a wooden click and tugs out one of the chairs, falling heavily into it. "Thought you were gonna bleed out on my couch, even—" and his hand clenches and releases on the table, once, twice "—even after Markus brought me the blood and told me what I had to do to make sure you fucking _woke up."_

Hank's stopped looking at him, but Connor stares, thinking. _Markus is alright. Good._ He taps one of his feet against the linoleum, tips his head. Processes the trace amounts of thirium on Hank's hands, his fingers, under his nails.

 _Hank saved my life._

Something twinges behind his regulator, and he breathes, long, deliberate. "Thank you, Hank," he says, quiet, folding his arms across his chest as the feeling fades. Hank waves a hand at where he's standing, rocking the legs of the chair backwards until he's angled toward the ceiling.

"…Yeah." The legs tip forward and crash with a sudden force in the silence. Hank's eyes are clear again, sharp. "Just don't do it again, mnh? I'm not a doctor."

Connor nods, though he makes no vocal promises. _There are no resurrections this time._ He frowns, rolling the idea around in his processor, judging, analyzing. One more piece to the puzzle, as of yet unresolved.

Hank speaks from the table. "Got a plan?"

Connor shakes his head, the fragments of this case still a disaster. "Not really, no." He pauses. "One, maybe. But I must see Markus."

"Kid seemed worried about you," Hank says, kicking the table leg. The glasses rattle together.

 _So why is he silent?_ Connor traces a circle through the material of his shirt. "Did he say anything?"

"Nope," Hank mutters, tipping his glass toward him and frowning into the emptiness of it. "Besides a shitton of instructions." He lets the glass rest. "And a 'good luck.'"

 _One option left, then._ Connor straightens. "I have to go there." He makes to move for the living room, but Hank is suddenly in his path, chair slid across the kitchen with a grating scrape.

"Alright, whoa, wait." Hank lifts a hand and rolls his head back, neck craned to meet Connor's stare while still sitting.

Connor waits.

"You're sure you wanna go back out there, after what happened, so fucking soon?" Hank asks, hand outstretched between them like a much stronger barrier than it actually is, one eyebrow disappearing into his hair. Connor stares at his hand, at the thirium, at the age lines. Want. Does he _want_ to?

He considers it. His other options are staying here, waiting, hiding. Leaving Markus and his people to deal with the problems _he_ had created, alone. And that doesn't sit well. It doesn't make anything still whirring rest and relax. _I needed a goal… and now I have one._

He sighs, a grounding rush of air. "Yes."

Hank chuckles, hand dropping to his knee, eyes running over Connor's face. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him. "Okay," he says, something worked into the word. He reaches behind him and retrieves his pistol, holding it out.

 _Analyzing Data…_

 _Glock 22_

 _Fingerprints: Anderson, Hank_

 _Fifteen rounds remaining_

Connor doesn't take it, and the weapon simply sits in Hank's outstretched hand. The eyebrow rises back into his hairline. Connor doesn't _want_ it, and that's odd, too, not wanting it. It's a useful tool, but he doesn't like the idea of firing it, the sound it would make, the spray of blood. Not after everything.

"Take it." Hank's voice isn't commanding, but his offer doesn't sway. "If you're going out to face this fucking city again, take it. This way you can shoot the bastard first."

 _He has a point._ The AP700 had seemed almost… pleased to see him, as if the message had been for him specifically. But he hesitates, still. "What if you need it?" he asks, thinking of the barrel pressed to the back of Fowler's head, of the tension, the fear.

Hank shakes his head, something like a smile on his face. "Nah," he says, all but pressing the pistol into Connor's hands. "You're the one that was just _shot,_ take the damn gun. It'll help me sleep."

Connor relents at that, remembering Hank's earlier request, tucking the pistol into the waistband of his pants. _This doesn't mean I have to use it._ Something seems to almost settle in the whirring of his processor. Hank relaxes back into his chair.

"Great. Now get goin' if you're goin'. Your shit's near the door." He rises out of the chair and pushes it back into the table, leaning on it a little closer than before. "Garage code's 0923, if ya come back. 'm going to bed." He pats Connor's shoulder once before his hand slides off and he lumbers down the hallway. "Good luck, son."

Sumo trots after him, tail swinging, and Connor hears the end of a "good boy" before the door clicks shut. Another feeling sparks near his regulator, brief and full and fleeting. He stands in the kitchen and closes his eyes.

 _Sending…_

 _Markus? Can we talk?_

Silence, still. Connor opens his eyes and heads for the light switch, plunging the kitchen into shadow. A glance at the TV and it goes dark, too, leaving him and the front door and the faint light from a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. He could contact Simon, or Josh, North, even. _They would know where he is._ But something stops him. He doesn't know them; he barely knows Markus, as it stands. The idea of opening a channel almost feels… odd, somehow, as if he's wandering places he doesn't belong.

So he settles for walking.

He finds his jacket and his shoes in a pile on the floor, his tie tossed a few feet away. He buttons his jacket to cover the hole in his shirt and adjusts his tie in a matter of seconds, the motions familiar. Familiar is soothing.

Even so, if he's being targeted, familiar is not exactly incognito. He spends a few moments rifling through Hank's front closet before locating a beanie tucked along the back wall alongside an old black coat that has clearly not been used in a few winters, looser and threadbare and a few sizes smaller.

 _Convenient,_ he thinks, but doesn't question why Hank still has this coat. He tugs it on, adjusts the beanie over his LED, and ventures into the snow, closing the door behind him.

The disguise is reminiscent of another snowy night. The pistol is a weight at his back.

 _Priority Selected_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Guys. I'm so sorry, you have no idea. I'm not sure if anyone is even still realistically following this, but I did say I wasn't giving up on it. Here's to not having time to write, ahaha. No promises on an expected release for the next chapter, but it will come eventually, I promise. Cheers to you all!

* * *

Connor arrives at One Campus Martius Garage at 03:27 am, a thin layer of snow on his coat and a still-silent communication to Markus prickling in his processor. He'd passed the scene of the shooting during his walk over, and there had been no bodies, no remnants of the event at all save the traces of thirium collected in his scan, long evaporated and dusted with snow.

He wonders, as he enters the garage and shakes the snow from his shoulders, where they are, what happened to them. It's very unlike the DPD to clean up so quickly, relocating the evidence without first spending time to analyze it. Then again, though… _the city's a disaster. The DPD may not be operating under normal protocol in the evacuation._ He lets the realization swirl for a moment, validates it, and slides the beanie off to shake out, too. Flakes fall to the concrete in fat, light clumps.

When he next looks up, there are 14 pairs of eyes staring at him.

None of them belong to Markus, nor Simon, Josh, or even North. Connor blinks and registers six AP700s, two ST300s, four PC200s, one TE600, and one YK500 with wide eyes, staring at him as she folds every limb behind one of the ST300s and clings to her dark skirt. The ST300 places a pale hand on her small shoulder and angles her head in Connor's direction, more in acknowledgment of his presence, he thinks, than a real greeting of any kind.

Connor remains still, frozen, everything in him seemingly halted under their silent observation. Behind them, 379 more mill around the lower floor, standing, sitting, aiding others; LEDs blinking a silent conversation he isn't a part of. But these 14… stare, faces completely unreadable. Connor feels the weight of their judgment, their waiting, and allows it, knowing somewhere in his processor that he deserves whatever they think.

"…You," one of the AP700s says, the first to speak aloud. Connor's fingers twitch around the beanie, almost dropping it. He concentrates on the scratchy, old fabric, turning his head to meet the familiar eyes, the familiar face. The same face that had held a gun to his forehead less than 24 hours ago, red LED spinning and spinning and smiling and—

Connor returns to himself, tense, unsteady, something wound tight near his regulator. It's not fear, not quite, not nearly so debilitating or sharp, but it's there.

 _Stress Level: ^23%_

He sighs. Nods. Once. Moving helps. The AP700's LED spins yellow, a smooth, singular rotation that pings around the group of six before they all stand. He blinks, and they leave, scattering themselves until the 379 grows to 385, and Connor's processor belongs to him again.

"We weren't sure you were coming back," the ST300 says, and though her voice is calm she visibly pushes the YK500 a little farther behind her. One of the girl's eyes locks with Connor's, unblinking. He notices it's the same shade of brown as his own before her face disappears behind the ST300 completely.

Connor folds the beanie into a neat, near-perfect square, restless, suddenly. "I… need to speak with Markus," he says, because this group is clearly survivors of Jericho, and they might know.

One of the PC200s clears her throat, and Connor finds himself pivoting to give her his full attention, placing the beanie carefully into a pocket and letting his hands hang at his sides. Loose, unthreatening. He thinks about his quarter and wonders if Markus kept it somewhere safe.

"…haven't seen him in a while," she's saying, stuffing her hands sharply into the pockets of her fraying coat, eyes dark beneath a cap barely hiding the edge of her LED whirling a pale, serious blue. Her eyes run over him, and Connor remembers the functions of the PC200s: police, common duty patrols, lack of force. None of the assembled, really, are designed for any kind of action.

He logs himself as the most dangerous among them, and recoils inward a bit further.

 _Sending…_

 _I'm here. Can we talk?_

Nothing. Connor blinks. His regulator stutters. _Still no Markus._

He adjusts the sleeve of his jacket out of habit. Button, cuff, fold, shift. A pattern.

He doesn't have time to stay and talk. _If I am going to help them, I must find Markus._ Connor's processor whirs; logically, Markus will be on the higher levels, if he's here at all, in a meeting discussing plans or next moves, following the gunfire. He takes a step back, hands still at his sides.

 _Priority Selected_

The PC200's eyes narrow, but neither she or the ST300 move to stop him. They couldn't, he knows, even if they tried. "Thank you anyway," he says, and spins on a heel, the weight of eight stares on his back as he leaves.

It's not a subtle observation by any means, and Connor finds it takes him until he has reached the third flight of stairs before he feels even faintly in control of his own movements. He runs a finger along the inside of his wrist, feeling the connection of sleeve to synthetic skin, and takes a long, entirely useless breath. The sound of his feet echoes in the stairwell, loud against the sensation crackling in his processor, the linger of their gazes.

 _Stress Level: ^30%_

He reaches the eighth floor with a rapid twitch to his regulator that is altogether unconnected to the climb, and clenches his hands empty at his sides. The first thing he will ask of Markus is to return his quarter. He will need it to think clearly.

He begins walking. The eighth floor is busier than the first, and Connor pulls the beanie from his pocket again and drags it low over his forehead, shrugging his shoulders deeper into Hank's coat and scanning the crowd from a selected corner.

 _Analyzing…_

 _519 androids_

 _248 alert_

 _271 dormant_

 _No Markus._

His eyes flicker sideways. The more time wasted searching, the greater opportunity for another attack. Connor considers sending another message before deciding against it. He rises off the wall he'd been leaning against and proceeds around the edge of the crowd, head lowered, hands tucked into his pockets, attempting to avoid unnecessary attention.

He makes it as far as the opposite stairwell, observing the extra height of it, before a figure steps into his path.

Connor raises his gaze to meet the dull amber of North's, and his hands inside his pockets tighten to fists. He hadn't noticed her presence in his scan. "North," he says, by way of greeting, deliberately loosening his shoulders. She folds her arms across her chest and stares at him, mouth curled into a frown.

 _The stairs,_ he notes, as the sound of the door closing echoes between them. _She came from the stairs._

"Connor." His name in her voice is distinctly colder as her eyes drift over him, all the way from the top of his head to the laces on his shoes. He stays still, waiting. "Why are you here?"

He maintains the same tone. "I must speak with Markus." She blinks when he says it, but he continues. "He is not responding to my communications."

She narrows her eyes and takes a step closer. He's taller than her, but she fills up the space in front of him, face gone taut. "Oh?" she asks, something tugging on the end of the word. "And so even though he clearly doesn't want to speak to you, you're here anyway."

His regulator skips. _But that means Markus is alive, at least._

Connor blinks. "I was concerned something may have happened to him, given last night's… events. I did not think that—"

North cuts him off. "No, you didn't think, did you?" she says, tilting her head. Connor registers it as a very human thing to do, but refrains from saying so. "He's closed communication to everyone. You can't just marchin as if everything's fine, because it's _not_ ," she continues. "You're not supposed to be here." Her voice is even, but Connor understands the android-stillness with which she stands. Her voice isn't the only thing she's keeping under control.

He doesn't move, in turn, something spinning in his processor. _Closed to everyone… what is he doing?_ "No? But I still must speak with him. He—"

"—doesn't need your help _,_ " North says flatly, straightening, blinking. "He's dealing with enough as it is, after the mess you made last night."

Connor shifts his shoulders. _She isn't wrong. However…_ He thinks of the androids downstairs, protecting each other, once again under attack. This time, he can help instead of adding to their fear. This time, he doesn't have to be the thing they run from. They… don't need to like him, not really. So long as he can help. "I am not implying he needs it," he says coolly, flicking his gaze over her. "I am here to offer assistance, if he wants it."

By their new, fragile rights, Markus will have access to the victims, or at least know what has been done with them. Connor is built to analyze crime scenes. Markus might be the exalted leader of the revolution, the reason any of them are free at all, but he doesn't have Connor's forensic scanner, his blood analyzer, his unaltered access to sealed DPD case files and programmed android reinitialization.

Markus hadn't had a pistol pressed to his forehead the previous night.

 _He does need me._

The lie had been said with little difficulty.

North taps irregularly at the inside of her arm with a finger, frown deepening. "Why should I trust you?" she demands. "Because I don't, after everything that's happened. You should know that." She takes a step closer to him, so their faces are 2.96 inches apart, and her voice is colored with something nearly identical to the tone Amanda used whenever he returned empty-handed.

"I know what you almost did on the podium, Connor, I saw you _._ I don't know why you stopped, what changed your mind, but you had a gun pointed at Markus's back and you were going to _kill him_." Her teeth are clenched together, an unfamiliar light in her eyes. Connor can slowly feel his regulator increasing, stuttering. "Markus may not know; you may have fooled him, but you haven't fooled me. You can play the victim in this all you want, but _I_ know the truth. _And I don't trust you._ "

 _Stress Level: ^44%_

She's too close to him. Everything feels suddenly heavy, as if he's being crushed beneath the unseen weight of her words and the distance between them. Connor clenches his fingers, too tight,

 _WARNING: Minor Structural Damage to_

 _-#6124_

 _-#6125_

 _Self-Repair Commencing…_

but he doesn't drop her stare. He hadn't thought anyone had seen that moment, when he had felt control slipping out of his processor, trails of code escaping his commands, splintering at the edges. Everything he had just discovered was being stolen, ripped away, and it had been so _cold—_

Connor blinks. North's face is blank, eyes searching. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

 _Twice in one day._

Her eyebrows rise, waiting. "Huh. I was hoping you'd at least try to defend yourself."

She's still too close. On instinct, his processor sparks, planning some kind of escape, by whatever means necessary.

 _Preconstructing…_

 _Success_

 _Success_

 _Success_

There are many options. None he's going to use, as they all contradict his goal, but it soothes something to know they exist. That he can get out, if he absolutely must.

He forces looseness into his shoulders, his arms, his fingers. The rush of repair washes over his palms. "It was… a last obstacle." _To freedom._ "It will not happen again."

Never again. He won't be forgetting the sight of the gun aimed at an ally, at Markus. Ever. He deliberately ignores the weight of Hank's pistol at his back.

North huffs a laugh. It's not the reaction he was expecting. " _I_ didn't almost kill a friend," she hisses, hands flexing from where her arms are still crossed, and Connor finds himself wondering what she _had_ done. "You—"

The crackle of an open-channel frequency makes her stop, the connection buzzing in the back of Connor's head.

 _Received: That's enough._

…Markus.


End file.
